25. Daisy
Chapter 25
Daisy
"Daisy," my dad booms when I answer my phone. "It's your dad."
I chuckle softly, sitting back on my bed to pull my knee-high boots on over a pair of tall socks. "I know, Dad. Your name comes up when you call me."
"Whoops," he responds, warmth in his tone. "I always forget that."
"What's up?" I ask, pushing myself to stand. "Everything ok at home?" Worry parks itself in my core. We'd been told my mother has another six months for sure, and a year at most, but every time my phone rings and I see my dad's name, I can't help but assume the worst. Because one day, it will be.
"We're doing alright," he assures me. "I was hoping you'd be free to come by the house for lunch today."
"Umm," I hesitate, only because I'm supposed to buy yellow ribbon and labels from the craft store today, before stopping at the liquor store for a bottle of rosé. The ribbon and labels are for the assemblage of my wedding favors. The beverage is for me.
Spending the day assembling wedding favors for a sham wedding requires pink wine.
"I can come over," I say, because there's a ticking clock in the back of my head, counting down the seconds until I can no longer stop for lunch at my parents' house and have both parents present.
"Twelve ok?" my dad asks.
"See you then," I reply, hanging up.
My gaze finds the stack of boxes in the corner of my room, holding all the small jars of local honey I ordered. The biggest box on the top of the stack contains two hundred honey dippers. There aren't that many people coming to my wedding, but I couldn't order a smaller amount in bulk. Maybe Spot can use the leftovers, or Dama Oliva.
I finish the last of my coffee, taking the cup with me down the hallway into the second bathroom. I rinse out the cup, turning it upside down and placing it on the towel I've been using to dry my dishes. Though I'm grateful to have an alternative, it's obvious I made a terrible choice the day I pressed pause on my impulse control and ruined my cabinets.
Then again, if I hadn't done that, I wouldn't have needed Peter's help. Without that, I would've only seen him in a professional setting. There wouldn't have been a trip to a hardware store, a home décor store, a bitchy sales lady and a fall into his arms.
I guess it all happens for a reason, as they say.
With my plans for today delayed, I decide to head over to my parents' house early. I doubt my mom is the one making us lunch, and since my dad should almost never be allowed in the kitchen (two small fires, one blistered grease burn, and a situation with a blender), he would probably appreciate my help.
The air changes on the way to the St. James farm, going from dusty desert to something rockier, more earthen. I don't know if that's real, or imagined by me, but it sets a comfort to my bones. A creek runs parallel to the drive, cottonwood trees standing tall in the creek bed. This time of year they boast leaves a shade brighter than dandelion yellow, a stunning opposition to the red and brown rocky mountains beyond. The rise in elevation is the same as it is if I were to head due east, to the olive grove.
The farm comes into view first, followed by the farmhouse. The driveway is long, dust billowing around my car until I bump, bump onto the paved section. I pull my car around the circular drive, coming to a stop and putting it in park.
Outside my car, I hop up the stairs like I always have. In the distance, the whinny of a horse. A blue sky as far as the eye can see.
"Dad?" I say, letting myself in the house.
"In here, hon," he yells from the kitchen.
Great. I should probably check to make sure the fire extinguisher is ready to be used, if needed.
"Hi," I say, walking in. My dad stands at the counter, wearing his customary work-roughened jeans, and a Carhartt flannel shirt. On his feet are bright white socks, because my mother is a stickler about shoes in the house. I toe mine off, shucking them in a corner and pushing them under the lower lip of the cabinet.
He looks at me with a ready smile. "Hello, Daisy Mae."
Nobody uses my middle name except him, and he always has. Excluding when he's stern with me, or apologetic. Most of the time he's happy, and fun-loving, and I'm Daisy Mae.
I stop for a hug from him, then keep going to the counter-height kitchen stools and wind my purse over the back of one seat. "Where's Mom?"
"On her way down," he answers, stirring something in a bowl. I can't see what it is, because the bowl isn't one of my mom's glass Pyrex. "Good day today, though."
It's his way of preparing me for how she'll look. How she'll act, in accordance with how she's feeling. I appreciate the heads- up, though it doesn't make any of this better. The fact she's dying, and soon, is inescapable.
"How can I help?" I ask, joining my dad at the counter. Peering into the bowl, I determine it is some kind of potato salad. "Did you make that?"
"Uhh, no." He laughs self-deprecatingly. "I bought a basic potato salad, then added bacon and green onion, and a little bit of Dijon mustard. It's one of your mom's oldest tricks."
Swiping a chunk of potato, I pop it in my mouth and am pleasantly surprised. "This is actually good."
"Your mother calls it upcycling. " He frowns. "I think. Or maybe she calls it a hack."
"Either way, you nailed it."
"Is that my darling girl I hear talking?" My mother's voice reaches us before her, and when she does, it's like a punch to the gut. I don't know why it knocks me out emotionally to see her hollow cheekbones, her sunken skin clinging to her chest bones in the scoop neck T-shirt she wears. She looked the same the past few times I've seen her, and she'll continue to be this way. I have to be able to see past it, to not let it decimate me, so I can savor our time together.
"Mama," I trill, floating away from my dad so I can hug her fragile form. "Dad is taking a page out of your personal cookbook."
"Taught him everything I know," she sasses. "Good thing, too, cause I'm dying."
Dad's head drops. His shoulders slump.
Neither of us are willing to ask her why she makes those jokes, or tell her how they make us feel. Her maudlin sense of humor is a recent development, probably a coping mechanism. How can I ask her to stop something that may bring her a brief respite from facing down the end of her life?
"Oh, Mom." A gentle chide is all I manage. "You're getting saucy."
She laughs, walking slowly but with determination to my dad. Like me, she samples a bite from the bowl and declares it right on the money.
A timer dings. Dad grabs a pair of tongs, clacking them together in the air and announcing, "That would be the chicken."
Dad informs me we're eating outside in the screened-in porch. I set the table, coming back to help carry food, when I hear my parents' low voices.
"You should have seen her in my dress, Charles. She was a vision."
"I know, honey. You've said so many times."
"I can't help repeating myself." She sighs. "Do we have to talk to her today?" It's almost a whine.
That's odd. I slow down, lingering.
"We're talking to her now," my dad says gently.
"I don't want to upset her," my mom responds, less than gently.
"Neither do I, but we owe it to her to tell her."
"Tell me what?" I ask, stepping in and leaning a shoulder against the wall.
Dad sighs. He gestures out to the porch, saying, "Let's talk about it out there."
I settle in at the table, watching as my dad helps my mom sit back. He fetches two more pillows, placing them between her back and the wicker chair. "Good?" he asks.
She nods and murmurs, "Thank you."
The second he's seated, I say, "We're here. Tell me, please."
He and my mother exchange a look. He picks up the white serving dish laden with juicy barbecue chicken, using the same tongs to place a portion on each plate.
"Da-ad," I pester, worry mounting. This must have something to do with my mom. Did she get more bad news? Did the doctor say she has less time than he initially thought? What about?—
"We need to talk about the new friend you've made."
I stare at my dad's forehead because he refuses to look at me, busying himself with dishing out potato salad like it's the most important thing he will accomplish today. "What?"
He sets the bowl down and is forced to meet my eyes. "Peter, I believe?"
"Yes," I say slowly. "He's my patient."
Mom covers my hand with her own. "Are you sure that's all he is?"
Dalliance . Dammit Duke, you and your fancy word.
"Yes, Mom. Well, no." Mom's eyes bulge. "I mean, he's also a friend. He already knows Hugo, it's not like I brought him in from a ravine somewhere and made him my new project." No more projects here, aside from tearing out my cabinets myself, and now I have piles of stuff everywhere and no cabinets.
Mom laughs harder than is necessary, looking to bring peace to this conversation as soon as possible.
"Daisy," my dad says, quiet but determined. "People are talking about how much time you're spending with your new friend."
I arch an eyebrow. "People? Or Glenn Hampton?"
Dad looks surprised I know. "Glenn called me, because someone else called Glenn when they saw you at Hugo's rental property."
"You can rest easy, Dad. I already know all this, and Duke and I have already dealt with it."
Mom claps her hands, eyes lighting up. "Perfect. We have nothing to worry about. You and Duke are still headed down the aisle. No trouble in paradise after all."
"None whatsoever," I confirm, though my father isn't so quick to let my response be enough. He's watching me closely, turning it all over in his mind.
"Remember, Daisy, how you act reflects on everybody."
My molars grind. "I know, Dad. I have always known that." I don't need the reminder. At all. Ever.
"I'm sure, Daisy, but do you really understand that what you do also now reflects on Duke? On the Hamptons?"
Under the table, my thighs tighten. Jaw clenches. My heart races, a thoroughbred stomping its hooves in my breastbone.
"Yes," I grit out. "I do."
Stress claws at me. Thickening my throat, a boulder forming. It's everything I can do to chew and swallow, to force the food past the lump.
The conversation moves on. My parents make small talk, and I listen without contribution. My dad is telling my mom about a couple who had a marital spat during a recent tour of the thoroughbred facility. The wife ended up getting in their car and locking herself in. The husband ignored her tantrum, went for lunch at Spot, and hit on the young lady working.
I laugh and smile in the right places, doing an excellent job covering up a mini panic attack, but my mother knows me too well.
"Are you ok, Daisy?"
I press a hand to my stomach. "I think maybe I ate too much, too fast. I'm not feeling great."
"You could sleep in the guest room? I'll make it up for you."
She starts to push back her chair, but I stop her with an extended hand. "I think I'll go home. Sleep in my own bed. But I appreciate the offer." I stand up, gathering my napkin and cutlery and plate, bending to brush a swift kiss on my mom's cheek. "I love you, Mom. I'll see you soon."
I stop in the kitchen to load my plate and silverware into the dishwasher. My dad comes up behind me, footfalls padded from his socks.
"Daisy?"
I close the dishwasher and stand up. "Yes, Dad?"
"I don't mean to upset you, but you need to be careful."
"Right. So I don't sully the St. James name. My shiny reputation."
"Well, yes. But also because you're preparing to marry someone we've known for ages. Whose family is almost our family, whether we've always liked it or not. And, hon…" He reaches for my hand, looking at me with so much care it would bring tears to my eyes on a normal day, if I weren't already emotionally wrung out. "If you were to mess up and make a mistake, Duke might forgive it, but Glenn Hampton would never let you forget it."
"Peter is only a friend, Dad. I promise. And he's going back to San Diego as soon as he sells the Bellamy house."
My dad flinches. "Bellamy house?"
"That's why he's here. To clean it up and sell it off."
Something comes over his eyes, an emotion I cannot ascertain. "Daisy…"
"Dad, I love you. I'm going home now."
He watches me go, murmuring I love you, too just before I walk out.
I drive home, box breathing the whole way. In for four, hold, out for four, hold.
I understand where my dad's coming from. He's trying to protect me, but it's having the opposite effect. I'm feeling choked by expectations, held down by what everyone else wants. The pressure is too much, too great. I want to scream. Cry. Punch something. Do more than impetuously rip out cabinets.
So badly I want a break from all this, from my reality. I want to step outside this world I've set up for myself. I want to say what I want, and do what I want. I want to feel without fear of being judged.
I pass the turn off for my house, but my foot never leaves the gas pedal. I drive down Olive Avenue, passing all the stores. Straight to the other side of town. Two rights, and one left, entering a tidy little subdivision filled with matching houses. Down one street I go, and then the next. A slow crawl past his house.
No truck in the driveway.
Maybe it's for the best.
What would I have done if I saw Peter in this condition? Ripped off my clothes, begged him to separate my body from my mind for a while?
I don't know what to do.
I don't know what not to do.
One thing I know for certain is that eventually, pressure wins.